


and they see only their own shadows, or the shadows of one another

by oheart



Category: Papillon (2018)
Genre: Adding Shadows To The Walls of The Cave i felt that, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Codependency, Escapism, M/M, when hozier said Any Way To Distract And Sedate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:22:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24032713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oheart/pseuds/oheart
Summary: "Their cave is his only reprieve. Slowly, he and Louis build a home inside those walls. With yellowed palm tree leaves for a mattress and their own body heat for blankets, their makeshift bed is the closest thing to comfort that either of their bodies can remember."
Relationships: Henri "Papillon" Charriere/Louis Dega
Comments: 12
Kudos: 28





	and they see only their own shadows, or the shadows of one another

**Author's Note:**

> purposely misrepresenting plato's words, like hozier would've wanted.

In Devil’s island the sun burns hotter than the mind can stand. It washes out the colors, whitens stone, turns their fraying clothes into dry tatters until the island is covered in greying and chafing figures, crawling about from hole to hole, searching for a bit of mercy in the shade. The nights are a bittersweet relief; the sun kisses the ocean and Papillon swears he can hear it fizzle, but that protective blanket of darkness that covers the sky isn’t a gift exclusive to the two of them. Alas, while the days are coarse enough to break the skin, the night air is thick with the groans and ravings of the mad. 

Their cave is his only reprieve. The stone beneath him is uneven – and sharp if he’s not careful – but, slowly, he and Louis build a home inside those walls. With yellowed palm tree leaves for a mattress and their own body heat for blankets, their makeshift bed is the closest thing to comfort that either of their bodies can remember. 

When they lie together at night, so close that their breaths mingle and their heartbeats echo one another other in a loop so tight not even Papillon could single out his own heart, the complaints of the mad fade away into the background. 

“It almost sounds like the wind blowing, out in the open sea,” Louis whispers sleepily to him. It’s true. If he closes his eyes, the pitiful wails could easily pass for the Atlantic whistling angrily above their bowed heads, the groans could be the damp wood cracking under the cruel pressure. Papillon licks his lips and tastes salt water. He drifts into sleep with arms wrapped tight around Louis, lest a strong wave comes and tries to throw them apart while they dream. 

Some days, he tracks the passage of the hours by the crawl of Louis’ shadow around their circular cave. Louis stands on a rock-turned-bench, so that the very tips of his ink-covered fingers can transform the irregular ceiling of their cave into his own version of Lascaux. Papillon sits and waits for Louis to move into the right spot, where the sun can slip inside to meet his lover’s scarred body and turn it into a living sun clock. 

“What will you do,” Papillon breaks the easy silence, “when you run out of ceiling?” 

Louis’ answer is immediate, as if he had expected the interruption all along: “I suppose it’s only logical that I move to the walls, and then the floor.” 

He doesn’t come down from his perch or looks away from his task as he answers, so Papillon gets to his feet and moves to place a hand on his hip, in guise of helping Louis keep his balance. 

“And when you run out of walls and floor,” Papillon presses, softly but stubborn, “what then?” 

Louis stays silent for long enough that Papillon begins to wonder if the subject has been dropped for the day. Then Louis sighs and looks down at him. He rests a hand on the side of Papillon’s neck, inky thumb tracing the butterfly on the hollow of this throat by memory. Papillon is caught under the sudden attention, after the comfort of observing without being observed for so many hours. 

Louis smiles at him, repentless, and then finally: “there’s still room for ink on you, Papi.” 

As they stand there, Papillon’s own body blocks the sun and, for a moment, they simply exist – ignorant to the passage of time. 

He’s standing in his childhood farmhouse. He touches his own arms and the dry fingertips feel like sand on the paper-thin skin. His face is a map of new lines and wrinkles, his bones are stiff, his body soft and pliant. There’s an ease to his posture that his mind does not recognize, but feels familiar to this new old body. Papillon inhales a deep breath and takes in all the time that has passed—not in the changes it left in his body, but in the air itself, in the walls of the house. 

There’s a smell of a long life lingering on those walls, years of it. It flakes off and fills the air like chipped paint. It’s not a smell he remembers, though he feels like he should. There are pictures covering the walls. Smiling children here, a happy couple there, generations lined up before him. Their faces say nothing to him, and yet he knows the if he were to look closely, he’d find his own aged face looking back at him. 

Papillon looks away. He walks towards the front of the house, searching for the door that should lead him outside. He finds it in the shape of a floor-to-ceiling safe. It’s massive and its very existence should give him pause, instead Papillon’s hand goes straight for the dial. 

Louis materializes besides him and stills his hand. 

“I won’t make it through another try,” he says, looking as young as when they went to bed, just minutes ago, “I’m afraid the next one will be my last, Papi.” 

Louis releases his hand and Papillon wakes up. 

He’s back in their cave, lying on his back. The sun is only beginning to fill in through the cracks, but Louis is already up and cursing softly at his achy leg. There’s a new butterfly painted almost directly above Papillon, a perfect twin in shape and size to the one on his own skin; another addition to her growing sisters. 

Papillon pulls Louis back into the ground, ignoring his protests, which sputter away into nothing once his fingers begin to dig into the sore muscles of Louis’ leg. Louis' face contorts into a pained look that he’s too tired to hide, and the dream sticks to the back of Papillon's mind like dried mud on his clothes. 

_It’s about the waves_ , even as he explains his own plan, it sounds weak, like he knows it can’t work, not this time. _We ride the current to freedom._

And yet, Louis looks optimistic enough, so they carry on with it. They pack all the food and water that they have. They build their rafts and carry both all the way up to the cliff. It’s only when they stand side by side at the edge, that Papillon feels himself falter. He knows he’s ready to die for this – he's been ready to die for the decisions he’s made and the paths he’s taken since the day he cracked his first safe. 

But he knows now that death’s not the worst that can happen. He could survive, only to watch helplessly as Louis meets his death out in the sea. Or their rafts could get separated by the current or a storm, sending them both into wildly different directions, never to meet again. 

Or they could survive the ocean, together, and then what? Whatever land they wash out on would be hostile to them. They’d have to build new identities, new memories. They would need to fit in quickly, start new lives. How much would this, _them_ , change? They would never share a bed again, that much he knows. 

Is he so monstrous, that death is better than living to watch Louis drift away from him? He knows the answer to that already, the question is in whether he’s selfish enough to impose his decision on Louis. He’s looking at his own white-knuckled grip on his raft when Louis’ voice interrupts him. 

“I won’t make it,” he states towards the horizon, “I can’t swim with this leg; if the fall doesn’t finish me, the currents will. And if not that, then starvation or whatever’s between here and there—wherever there is.” Now he turns to Papillon and grabs his arm, so they’re facing each other: “I won’t hold you here. You should go; you belong out there, for the same reason I belong in here.” 

Despite his words, his grip never loosens. Papillon knows that out there, somewhere beyond this cliff and the ocean, there’s a farmhouse waiting for him. Pictures of a happy couple, smiling children, a long, comfortable life. No reminders of prison, of the destructive silence of solitary, of Devil’s island, of the mad and the dead. No trace of Louis or the time they spent together. 

Slowly the raft slips from his fingers to lie uselessly on the rocky ground, no more a raft than a sack filled with empty bottles and coconuts. He takes Louis’ hand into his instead, and together they climb the way back down to their cave.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 - title from plato's allegory of the cave, translated by benjamin jowett (edited a bit for brevity):
> 
> "SOCRATES: and they see only their own shadows, or the shadows of one another, which the fire throws on the opposite wall of the cave. When any of them is liberated and compelled suddenly to stand up and look towards the light, he will suffer sharp pains; the glare will distress him, and he will be unable to see the realities of which in his former state he had seen the shadows; and then conceive someone saying to him, that what he saw before was an illusion, -what will be his reply? Will he not be perplexed? Will he not fancy that the shadows which he formerly saw are truer than the objects which are now shown to him?"
> 
> 2 - according to wikipedia, the events of the movie happen about seven years before the rediscovery of the lascaux cave, but let's ignore that. 🖤
> 
> reigninhell on tumblr


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